


Stay in Motion

by gizkas, ignitesthestars, starforged



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Full Cast - Freeform, Gen, M/M, short story collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9055051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gizkas/pseuds/gizkas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/pseuds/starforged
Summary: Jyn’s eyes dart to the exit. A man in long-sleeved blue shirt and a brown vest speeds by. Stops. Doubles back. He grips the frame of her white door like something is about to blow him away.“We did it!” He cries, eyes wide and teeth bared in a smile.“WE DID IT!”Cheers, she realizes. They weren't screams. They were cheers.--Short stories set in a universe where the Rogue One crewmembers survive





	1. welcome back, welcome home

**Author's Note:**

> A series of short stories, expanding on [this](http://gizkasparadise.tumblr.com/post/154871017582/rogue-one-everyone-lives-au) original post!

It’s the sound of screaming that wakes her up. 

 

The inside of her nose and mouth still smells of sand and burned hair, but there’s a dryness on her tongue and an odd, aggressively sterile taste. She lets go of an exhale, her lips waxy and chapped around it.

 

The screaming grows louder, a pounding in her ears.

 

Jyn’s eyes flicker open, her lungs cough out something wet. Head swimming, she does her best to filter around the ringing in her head, to understand what’s going on. 

 

The screams grow closer. Feebly, an arm reaches under her stomach for the blaster at her hip-

 

-it’s no longer there.

 

Jyn’s eyes dart to the exit. A man in long-sleeved blue shirt and a brown vest speeds by. Stops. Doubles back. He grips the frame of her white door like something is about to blow him away.

 

“We did it!” He cries, eyes wide and teeth bared in a smile. Jyn thinks he’s young. Hardly twenty. “WE DID IT!”

 

And he’s off again, one more blur against the hoards that are running by. 

 

She exhales, pushes herself up on the bed. There’s something hooked to her arm, but she mentally puts it as a second priority as she looks around the room. 

 

M E D W A R D is stamped in Aurabesh on the window.

 

Jyn’s lungs seem to squeeze. She looks to her side, and a faceless med droid looks back at her.

 

“SHALL I PREPARE ANOTHER SEDATIVE, SERGEANT ERSO?”

 

Cheers. Not screams. They were  _ cheers. _

 

“No…” she manages, pressing the back of her knuckles underneath her eye, rubbing. “No, that’ll be alright.”

 

\--

 

Bodhi has paced this walkway more than a dozen times, but he can’t stop. Underneath, he sees the scores of pilots, engineers, and other Rebellion personnel flood into the hanger. Bottles of alcohol are popped, sprayed. Arms are flung around each other in celebration--the cries of victory echo around the base.

 

He rubs his hands. Straightens his goggles. His stomach twists itself into knots.

 

“Not going to join the celebration?”

 

Bodhi looks over his shoulder. Running down the walkway above him, there’s a man in an orange flightsuit. Blue eyes. Flyaway blond hair. Bodhi doesn’t think he’s seen him before, but he looks like a country boy.

 

He tries to smile, but can’t. “Not yet.”

 

“Waiting for someone?”

 

He swallows tightly. “...My friends.”

 

The country boy stares at him. And then his lips part with a realization. “You’re the pilot.”

 

Bodhi blinks, but then he nods.

 

“I heard about Scarif. Pretty brave.”

 

“I. Thank you.”

 

“What was the name of your ship again?”

 

“Rogue One.”

 

“Rogue…” The pilot nods thoughtfully, before he strides forward. He clasps a hand on Bodhi’s shoulder. “Join us when you can, alright? Sounds like your crew could use a drink.”

 

Bodhi can only watch in bemusement as the man in orange slides down the ladder and embraces the woman he’s learned is Princess Leia.

 

\--

 

The droid told her she’s been 98% restored. Jyn imagines that 2% is what accounts for the hair. She runs a bandaged hand over the top of her buzzed scalp, feeling the new, dark fuzz under her palm. The heat had taken it. Her brows and lashes, too. Superficial losses for a miracle. 

 

She steps out of the medward like a fever dream, limping and wincing as she pulls the fabric of her shirt over her bandaged shoulder. Bacta is a miracle worker, but there will be scars soon where the pangs are.

 

The racing members of the Rebellion barely part for her as they rush toward the hangar bay-- laughing, crying. The stimulus ought to give her a migraine, but there’s someone she needs to see before she lets herself break in anyway. 

 

Every movement hurts. But it’s only 241 steps to the other medical wing, or so the droid has told her.

 

\--

 

“Baze,” his name comes out like a wheeze. “I see the light.”

 

The hand he has folded in between his own wiggles its fingers. And Baze’s head shoots up from where his forehead was pressed to the medical bed’s side. 

 

Chirrut coughs, a bacta patch covering a large part of his bared throat. “Wait, wrong room.”

 

Baze’s worry and exhaustion give way to unending relief, his eyes narrowing as the smallest of smiles makes it way onto his lips. Baze holds Chirrut’s hand to his cheek, presses a kiss to the center of its palm.

 

From his supine position, hooked up to several life-saving machines, Chirrut gives a strained attempt at a laugh. It’s shorter than usual--there had been a lot of fluid in his lungs.

 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Baze grunts.

 

“Then you’ll have to get worse at rescues.”

 

“I don’t get worse at anything.”

 

“We’re stuck then.”

 

Baze grips Chirrut’s hand tighter. “Same as usual.”

 

\--

 

The door slides open. Jyn gives herself a breath before crossing it.

 

There’s only one occupied bed. 

 

He looks as bad as she feels. His hair length mimics her own, a dark fuzz that covers his scalp, cheeks, chin, and throat. His eyes are closed, there’s a new scar on the corner of his mouth, tugging it into a frown even in sleep.

 

She looks at the machines. Sees a heartrate, a healthy pulse.

 

Jyn slides down to her knees, landing on the ground and staying there.

 

\--

 

An organic is blocking the door. 

 

It is not surprising that it is  _ this  _ organic.

 

“Oh. You’ve lived.”

 

The female organic ( _ Jyn,  _ it  thinks with what the humans would call ‘a sigh’) looks down.  And down. It is impossible to feel embarrassment, it tells itself. 

 

“Do I know you?” She asks.

 

“We are not friends,” K-2 says immediately. “Regardless of shared improbable survival experiences.” And, to clarify: “Those do not guarantee friendship.”

 

“... _ K-2 _ ?”

 

“Jyn Erso.”

 

“You’re…”

 

It is impossible to feel embarrassment. K-2's body, does however, skid from side to side. “My original form was destroyed.”

 

“I see that.”

 

“This is the only one that was currently available to upload my memory core.” A slow skid. “It was not my first choice.” Another. “Or second. I had no choice at all.”

 

Jyn wipes leaking fluid from her eyes. K-2 understands this as  _ empathy _ . Perhaps they are friends-

 

No. They are not! 

 

“You’re…”

 

The droid swirls around. “Is it...bad?”

 

She shakes her head. “I’m just.”  She... _ pets  _ it . Which is irrational for several reasons, least of all being that the standard MSE-6 models did not have tactile sensory inputs. “I’m happy to see you, K-2.”

 

“I am happy to see you as well, Jyn.” The droid rolls forward. “It means my optical processing is still in tact.”

 

\--

 

Jyn makes herself stand after K-2 moves past her into the room. The new, small cleaning droid body K-2 currently inhabits faster than her ability to process. 

 

K-2 was alive. Cassian was…

 

She moves forward. With a slightly hesitant hand, she brushes her fingers against his forehead. Biting back  _ something  _ (a sob? A laugh? She doesn’t know), she rests her palm on his cheek, fingertips tracing the ridges of his face-

 

“The medical droids are able to check temperature with high accuracy.”

 

Jyn looks down to the small, moving black box by her feet.

 

“Much higher than humans.”

 

A grin fights its way onto her face.

 

“ _ Much _ higher.”

 

“But not as nice,” comes a whisper against her skin.

 

Jyn startles back, but a hand comes up to hold her forearm. Warm, calloused. She looks down into Cassian’s open stare. 

 

“Welcome back,” she says softly.

 

“Welcome home,” he corrects.

 

\--

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

“I found the refresher,” Chirrut says happily over his shoulder. He walks in with staggered, pained steps--staff tapping the floor experimentally. “Larger than usual.”

 

“Chirrut,” Jyn greets happily from her place by Cassian’s bedside. 

 

“Little sister,” Baze returns on Chirrut’s behalf, stepping in behind him.

 

“Apparently,” Chirrut begins as he finds a comfortable spot to sit on one of the medical supply cylinders. Baze stands next to him.  “There’s a party.”

 

“For what?” Cassian asks around a rasp, it is a struggle for him to sit up but he manages.

 

“The Death Star.”

 

Attention shifts to the quiet voice, whose owner stands in the threshold of the medical wing.

 

Bodhi Rook holds a small, portable comm in his hands. “Give me a second.”

 

The pilot moves to the side of Cassian’s bed, placing the comm on top of the portable thermoscanner. He adjusts a few knobs, toggles a switch, and takes a half step back.

 

“ _ REBELLION FIGHTERS EARN MAJOR VICTORY AGAINST IMPERIAL FORCES-” _

 

K-2 rolls back, bumps into Bodhi’s leg.

 

“ _ -ROOKIE PILOT LUKE SKYWALKER HIT-” _

 

Baze’s hand rests on Chirrut’s shoulder.

 

“ _ -AWARD CEREMONY TO OCCUR SOON-” _

 

The hand Cassian has on Jyn’s forearm travels down. She interlaces their fingers.

 

“ _ -DEATH STAR DESTROYED! I REPEAT, DEATH STAR DESTROYED-!” _

 

And the crew of Rogue One listens together to the members of the Rebellion cheering in the background.


	2. without

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you see?”
> 
> It’s a question with layers. What does he see with his eyes, and what does he see with the Force? Baze is still reluctant to let himself accept their old teachings again, as if it’s a robe that has shrunk far too many sizes to be worn comfortably. But since Scarif, he has shrugged it on regardless. Death has a funny way of pulling and pushing people on different paths

There are many ways of seeing without having eyesight. That is the first lesson that Chirrut learned, so many years ago. All is possible through the Force, and the Force gives him a vision so few get to possess. 

That’s how he finds his way to her. He sees without seeing, like a guiding hand pushing him along at his slow pace. These bones don’t move quite like they used to, and while he’s never thought of himself as old before, Scarif has done enough damage to remind him of it. Recovery, the medics keep telling him. 

“We’re going the wrong way,” Baze points out from behind him. 

“Are we? Here I thought I was going the way I was supposed to.”

There’s that familiar, comforting sigh. It brings a smile to his face. 

He stops suddenly, Baze’s thick mass bumping into him before he can stop. For a moment, just a moment, he finds himself leaning back against his partner, taking comfort in that solid warmth, the strength that Chirrut has seen on him since the day they met. 

“What do you see?”

It’s a question with layers. What does he see with his eyes, and what does he see with the Force? Baze is still reluctant to let himself accept their old teachings again, as if it’s a robe that has shrunk far too many sizes to be worn comfortably. But since Scarif, he has shrugged it on regardless. Death has a funny way of pulling and pushing people on different paths.

“The princess,” Baze replies back. His hand is gentle on Chirrut’s shoulder. 

“The princess,” Chirrut agrees. 

What Chirrut sees is complicated. Darkness clouds her, and light. She is tinged in colors that have far too many names like grief and pride and stress. That grief resonates inside of Chirrut, colors Baze in the same way. Losing Jedha City had been a long process, beginning with the first soldiers of the Empire stealing their temple away from them. But they had still had the city. They still had home.

They still have each other. 

Chirrut learned about Alderaan after he woke, about how the Death Star went from cities to planets. And for what, exactly? All is as the Force wills it. 

But the pain is not an easy thing to accept. 

“It is a beautiful day out, isn’t it?” he asks as way of announcing himself in her presence. 

Another sigh from behind him, but there’s amusement in her tone when she responds. “Space doesn’t really have a day.”

“Are you sure? I could have sworn the sun was blinding me.”

There’s a soft, polite laugh. “I know who you are,” Leia says. “You two were part of the crew that stole the plans for the Death Star.” He hears the rustle of her sleeves and reaches for her hand as she reaches for his. “The Guardians of the Whills, Chirrut Îmwe and Baze Malbus.”

Her hand is clammy against his. There is much that can be learned by hands, by touch. It’s just another way he sees. Clammy and soft, but strong. 

“And you are the Princess of Alderaan, Leia Organa.”

Her hand stiffens. Her clothes shift against the tension in her body. “I was,” she says carefully.

She is strong. In her mannerisms, the way she carries herself. In the Force. “If I can still be a guardian without a temple, you can still be a princess.”

“Your planet is gone, but not what you represent,” Baze adds. It’s a poor attempt at comfort, but it eases Chirrut all the same. He expected something negative to come out of the assassin instead. 

Her fingers tighten around his, and he feels it in waves, the grief, the sadness. Has anyone said anything to her, or has she bottled up it up since the explosion? She feels ready to destroy. 

“I had heard about Jedha. I wish there had been more that could have been done.”

“All is as the Force wills it,” Chirrut says.

“I could have gone without feeling what the Force willed,” Baze says.

And it’s the right thing. She sags, this princess who is bursting with so much inside of her. There’s a gasp to her breathing, that emotion willing itself out of her lungs. 

“How can we trust in the Force if it takes so much? My father would say it to me, anytime we parted. ‘May the Force be with you.’ Was it with him when Tarkin used my planet as an example?”

“I cannot answer that for you. The way I trust the Force is different than the way you do.” Chirrut reaches behind him with his free hand until Baze threads his fingers with his. They are all connected now, links in a chain. “But I think you already know why you can trust in the Force.”

The Force brought him Baze. It brought him sight. It brought them Jyn. It brought them purpose. 

“Thank you,” the princess finally murmurs. There is still anger and grief, but it moves onto a different path. 

“Oh, no need to thank me. I’m just a meddlesome old man talking crazy.”


	3. we're here to reward bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “First time being recognized for greatness, kid?”
> 
> Bodhi does his best to come up with a suitable answer. “I was a cargo hauler.”
> 
> \--
> 
> The Throne Room ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Carrie <3

Mon Mothma’s eyes flicker up from the table, which still holds the holoprojected image of the Death Star slowly rotating above it. No one has had the heart to clear it from the council’s agenda, an omen or lucky superstition or both. Her personal experience with victory had been a fragile, short-lived, and vulnerable one. It always had been, for Mon Mothma. Ever since the Separatists.

 

“There is one more order of business.” She looks around the table, at those seated there. General Jan Doddana, General Davits Draven, and…

 

In Bail Organa’s place, Princess Leia Organa. The young woman meets the gaze of everyone in the room with her back straight, her chin tilted up. There is an entire planet’s worth of weight on her shoulders, but she bears it with the same indomitable grace as her father.

 

“As we’ve agreed, there will be a ceremony before departing this base,” Mon Mothma says quietly. “There is no doubt that Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Chewbacca should be recognized. But, on Princess Leia’s suggestion, it has been recommended we distinguish the survivors of Rogue One.”

 

“They were acting against orders,” Draven says sourly.

 

“To the Alliance’s benefit,” Doddana quietly counters.

 

“The only  _ member  _ of the Alliance is Captain Andor. Who, if you’ll recall, is an  _ intelligence  _ officer.” Draven’s irritated gaze travels the table, but lands on the princess. “I am hardly publicizing my covert agents’ identities for  _ pomp  _ and  _ circumstance,  _ your Highness.”

 

Mon Mothma feels the need to intervene. But instead, she watches the princess carefully. She trusts Bail’s daughter, and knows her capabilities.

 

Princess Leia presses her lips together in a regal sort of amusement. “Of course, General Draven. No one wishes to jeopardize critical intelligence for morale.” She moves, hitting a toggle on the table. “But I had another person in mind.”

 

The Death Star flickers out of existence.   
Instead, a personnel file hovers above them, complete with a headshot.

 

“You must be joking,” Draven mutters.

 

Mon Mothma does her best to hide an approving smile. Fails. 

 

“There will be some resistance to this,” Doddana hums.

 

The princess smiles, tilts her head in slight challenge. “We’re here to reward bravery, are we not?”

 

\--

 

He straightens his new jacket, tugs at the tops of his boots, smooths back his hair--his fingers won’t stop moving. The hallway before the Throne Room isn’t a small space, but Bodhi somehow manages to feel claustrophobic.

 

“First time being recognized for greatness, kid?”

 

He turns, looks over his shoulder. There stands the one he knows is Han Solo, arms crossed over his chest and shoulder nonchalantly against a wall. There’s the wookiee, Chewbacca, directly behind him.

 

Bodhi does his best to come up with a suitable answer. “I was a cargo hauler.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Han’s brows raise with an air of mischievousness. He nods behind him to where the wookiee stands. “Funny. That’s what me and Chewie here used to do.”

 

“You were smugglers,” corrects a new voice. Bodhi watches as a familiar man enters, yellow jacket on in favor of the orange flightsuit he was wearing when they first met. “Good to see you again, Bodhi.”

 

He clears his throat. “You too.”

 

There’s the sound of a trumpet.

 

Han pushes himself from the wall. “Guess there’s no time to be nervous, trucker.” He winks. “The show’s about to start.”

 

\--

 

It’s a long walk. Bodhi does his best not to faint.

 

Toward the back, he sees Chirrut and Baze, leaning near the exit. The assassin nods while his partner raises a closed fist up with a smile on his face. Bodhi does his best to smile back, before he walks forward into the Throne Room.

 

He takes his first steps, the music loud and echoing in the chamber. To his right, Jyn stands by herself, face impassive but eyes bright. He meets her stare for a moment, before he continues down the path, keeping his gait somehow even with that of a wookiee’s.

 

Just before the steps, Cassian stands at attention. Dressed in his formal uniform, and expression as grim as ever despite K-2 wheeling in figure 8’s around his ankles. To see the Captain at attention for  _ him  _ feels wrong and undeserving. 

 

But it’s not just his medal. Bodhi knows that.

 

After Cassian comes the princess.

 

She’s staggering and beautiful, and Bodhi watches with a numb sort of disbelief as she picks up a medal and drapes it around Luke’s neck. Then Han’s.

 

Then finally, his. 

 

His eyes are wide as he looks up, as her steady hands place a heavy weight around him. Her stare in return is kind, understanding.

 

_ I don’t deserve this!  _ He wants to protest.

 

But she smiles then, and it’s big and with teeth and it’s both humbling and honest.

 

The princess rests a hand on his shoulder, and gently turns him to the audience.

 

Where the whole of the Rebellion is cheering.

 

Bodhi traces his fingers around the edge of the circle resting on his chest, and slowly closes his eyes.


	4. the different ways to be a rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brawl, somewhat surprisingly, is not the fault of either Cassian Andor or Han Solo.
> 
> (Or, Han and Cassian take a while to warm up to each other)

“He’s a smuggler.”

Jyn, in the middle of a staring contest with K-2SO’s new optical lens, doesn’t look up at Cassian. A series of beeps emanates from the droid’s new chassis; she wonders idly if she should have payed better attention to Saw’s lessons on Binary, or if she’s glad she doesn’t know what K-2 is saying right now.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never dealt with smugglers before,” she says, carefully moving a finger back and forth in front of K-2’s dome. It swivels, prompting another flurry of beeps. “Don’t talk to me like that, it’s not _my_ fault the rebellion expects its cleaning droids to actually clean.”

Cassian pauses in his pacing to glance over at the two of them. Jyn does look at him then, just in time to see the scowl scoring his brow ease slightly. Her stomach turns over, a sensation that she quietly ignores for right now.

“You don’t speak Binary,” he points out.

Of course he knows that. She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s not happy with me.”

K2 beeps. It doesn’t take fluency in Binary to know it’s agreeing, and for a second it looks as though Cassian is going to be diverted from whatever’s got his goatee (which is more stubble right now, although it’s grown in enough that he’s shaving it that way until some of the worse patches catch up. Why does she know that). But his mind, focussed as ever, snaps right back to the topic at hand.

Which is apparently Smuggler Han Solo, who Cassian Doesn’t Like.

“Yes,” he says shortly. “I have dealt with smugglers. Most of them were also terrible. And the ones that weren’t didn’t demand thousands of credits worth of precious metals.”

“I should have thought of that.”

“Do you know what the Alliance could buy--” He catches sight of her mouth, the way her lips are twitching, and breaks off. “You’re joking.”

She pinches her fingers close together. “Little bit.”

Before he can say anything else, K-2 is trundling between them. A port opens, extending a metal arm that sparks disconcertingly. “Beep,” it says, somehow managing to make the sound as deadpan as anything its original vocal processors could have come up with.

“Very impressive,” Cassian assures him.

Jyn gives the new astromech a toothy grin, tapping her blaster. She could get used to K-2 not actually being able to speak properly. “Mine’s bigger.”

 _Not helping_ , Cassian’s face tells her, but she’s not trying to help. Her own debt with the Rebellion is squarely settled, and she assists or not at her own will. He can deal with his murder-droid his own self, especially when she’s more interested in what’s got him on a tear about Han Solo.

“He came back, you know,” she says over the top of K-2’s head. “That’s probably why we’re having this conversation at all.”

Cassian sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. Her fingers twitch; she folds them carefully over each other. 

“I know,” he says. “But his reasons for doing it don’t make him any more trustworthy.”

All of Jyn’s good humour at the situation abruptly drains away. Because she knows why Han Solo came back, knows that it has almost nothing to do with the Rebellion itself, and everything to do with the princess and the farm boy.

Cassian belongs to the Rebellion. Maybe not in the same way that he did when they got into this mess, but it sits at the core of who he is. And Jyn - Jyn has learnt to appreciate what they’re doing, in a dramatic sort of fashion. But when she thinks about why it is that she’s here, she has to wonder just how trustworthy that makes her.

*

Han Solo is an exhausting man.

Leia doubts she could find anyone to disagree with her on that front. And yet, she hasn’t made him leave as she oversees the packing up of Base One, despite the fact that he seems determined to get in the way of as many people as possible.

She must not be thinking straight. She _does_ feel a headache coming on.

“I’m just saying,” Han shouts, physically moving a fighter carrying crates out of his way as he heads back towards Leia, “for a rebel, he’s not exactly all that rebellious!”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Leia says, mostly to annoy him. She’d caught onto the Han-Captain Andor issue the moment it had become more than a passing irritation on the part of either of them, and had been keeping an eye on it. The last thing the Rebellion needed was two of their best assets trying to kill each other.

Plus. She was entirely certain that Captain Andor could take Han in a fight even having recently come through an explosion, and that was a mess no one needed to clean up.

“Weren’t you just telling me--” Luke pipes up, before Leia elbows him in the side. He’s ‘helping’ her, which mostly involves him staying out of the way. It’s more than Han can manage right now, so she’s grateful.

“ _Captain Andor_.” Han has returned to her at this point, too-close as ever. Leia lifts her chin as imperiously as possible, and ignores how warm he is. “Your bald buddy. He’s got even more of a stick up his you-know-where than y--”

“How did you even meet him?” Luke says hurriedly, glancing at her nervously. She rolls her eyes back at him.

“Captain Andor recently lost his hair in the explosion that got us the Death Star plans,” Leia adds lightly. “Which put _you_ in the position to get that reward you so desperately wanted, in case you had forgotten.”

Han’s face darkens briefly, and when he speaks, his voice is full of wounded pride. “Yeah, funny you should mention that. I asked the guy if he wanted a drink, you know. As a thank you. Next thing I know, I’m getting a look meaner than her Highnessness here ever managed, and a ‘ _some of us don’t need rewards for doing our jobs, Captain Solo_.”’

His attempt at Captain Andor’s accent, she notes, is terrible.

“Some of us don’t,” she says mildly, turning her back on him to direct another crate-carrying fighter. “Ah - over there, please.”

The sound of Han’s ego slowly deflating reaches her ears anyway. “I’m no good to anyone if my head’s hanging on a wall in Jabba’s palace, how’s that for doing my job?”

“I didn’t know you worked for us.”

Silence. Even Luke doesn’t interrupt this time, and Leia firmly strangles the urge to turn around and see what her words have wrought on the smuggler. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t.

“Like the two of you could look out for yourselves,” he snorts, and Leia releases a breath that definitely hadn’t been waiting for him.

*

The brawl, somewhat surprisingly, is not the fault of either Cassian Andor or Han Solo.

Tensions run high on the base, especially when they’re supposed to be in the middle of evacuating. Not everyone has the same reasons for being a part of the Rebellion, and the glow of destroying the Death Star is overwhelmed at times by the total destruction of Jedha and an entire planet.

In summation: Han and Cassian are minding their own business at opposite ends of the makeshift rebel cantina when raised voices spill into something a lot uglier, and the first bottle gets smashed.

Cassian curses as chaos erupts around him. His leg (amongst the rest of his body) is still stiff, his reaction time off, and - well. He’s an intelligence officer. Being non-descript has always been a part of his job, so he doesn’t have the sort of immediate authority that some of the more visible officers might. Making himself heard over this mess seems like a waste of energy, so he grabs the nearest flailing shirtsleeve to him and hauls, dragging some dumb soldier out of the fray.

“Are you going to calm down?” he demands of the man, and receives a wildly swinging fist for his trouble. With a sigh, he slaps it aside, kneeing the man in the balls hard enough to drop him to the ground and keep him there. Cassian might be injured, but he knows how to put a person down.

“Hey - _hey!_ ” 

Aaaand Han Solo is standing on a table. Cassian takes advantage of the momentary distraction to deal with another couple of belligerents, groaning internally. He’s read the Death Star reports. He knows all about this man’s in-the-moment plans, and half expects him to ask the cantina how they are. 

“We’re all friends here, right?”

That’s...that’s probably just as bad. Cassian edges around the crowd to get closer, n case the idiot needs to be rescued. He might have a medal, but Solo isn’t a member of the Rebellion officially, and more than one fighter is a little touchy about that.

Including him, he’s willing to admit.

“You really wanna beat the crap out of each other and have nothing left in the tank for the bucketheads? C’mon, fellas - and ladies!” he adds, holding his hands up with a note of panic in his voice. “You’re all smarter than that. You’re definitely better than that.”

Somehow, shockingly, that almost stems the tide of pent up frustration rushing in to fill the cramped space. But then someone is picking up a chair and throwing it at the man on the table, and Cassian just barely manages to drag him off the damn thing before he become one with the kinetic force.

“What the - hey, I can handle my own damn self!” Solo protests, before the chair shatters into pieces against a wall. “--Scratch that, time for plan two.”

“Plan two better not involve shooting any of our people!”

“‘Course not.” Solo’s grin is wide and toothy and Cassian doesn’t trust it one bit. It disappears behind his hand as he gives a sharp, piercing whistle and narrowing misses being punched in the head solely because Cassian knock his assailant off-course.

He’s about to ask if the other man plans on annoying them all into submission, when a bestial roar shatters the air and everything...stops.

At the entrance - the only entrance - to the room serving as the cantina, stands a Wookiee. He is not a happy looking Wookiee. In fact, Cassian would hazard a guess that the Wookiee is, in fact, sort of pissed off. Judging by the abrupt silence in the cantina, everyone else is thinking along the same lines.

The brawl dissipates as soon as it erupted, leaving a wide berth for the Wookiee - _Chewbacca_ , the intelligence officer side of Cassian’s brain supplies - to make his way over to Han.

Cassian considers attempting discipline, but the truth is - he’s tired. And he can’t blame the rank and file Rebellion members for their frustration, for their discontent. The Death Star is gone, but so is Alderaan. And destroying the Empire’s largest weapon has done seemingly nothing to effect its grip on the galaxy, while the Rebellion is fleeing to _Hoth_ , of all places.

He thinks that none of that would have mattered to him before. He thinks that a quiet word to Mon Mothma about the tension may prove more useful in the long run than punishing already exhausted fighters.

...Solo, he realises abruptly, is watching him with a keen sort of eye that he wouldn’t have expected from the other man. Then again, he would have expected the other man to be right in the middle of that sort of brawl, not trying to stop it.

His skills, it seems, are getting a little rusty.

“How about that drink?” he rasps finally.

Chewbacca croons his approval. Han, though, takes a moment longer before giving him a lopsided grin, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Sure thing, Baldy. Your shout?”

“I won’t shoot you for calling me Baldy.”

“...I’ll take it.”


	5. a river diverges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the dreams of a little girl that thought they could stay together.

Jyn isn’t naive. That’s a trait that’s been trained, beaten, maimed out of her a long time ago. But there’s a small part of her, where hope _burns_ brightly in her soul - a place that holds her mother and father and Saw - that wants them to be together for as long as the Force wills it. 

They do their best to eat together at least a couple of times a week, maybe more if they’re able to. Yavin IV isn’t exactly the best in cuisine, but it’s food. And it’s them. 

She sits back and watches their faces. Bodhi laughs at a joke he’s just made, his smile tugging at the scar on his face. K2 makes a whistling noise that sounds much like a grumble, an impressive feat for an astromech shell they had found. Baze looks as unimpressed as he usually does, arching an eyebrow at Bodhi. The pilot shrugs, but Chirrut is almost cackling, slapping his thigh. 

“See, Chirrut appreciates me, at least,” Bodhi sighs. 

She looks at Cassian last, wanting him to be the one she misses the least but knows that’s not how it works anymore. There’s a curve of a smile on his lips, the faint bristle of a beard growing in around them. His hair is growing back a little faster than her own. 

He’s going to leave first. 

He told her that last night when she came to see him.

That the medics had approved him for fieldwork. She couldn’t even protest. She couldn’t say that he needed more time. They all needed more time. But there was no time for them anymore, not in this war. It’s why she doesn’t say anything, just nods and accepts the information and asks if he knows where he’ll be going. 

_“You can’t follow me, Erso.”_

It’s a joke.

It’s not a joke.

“Such a dark cloud we have with us today,” Chirrut comments. 

Jyn snaps out of her reverie, rolling her eyes in Chirrut’s direction. “Are we talking about me?”

“Tell me, Baze, what expression is she wearing?”

“She’s glaring at me now,” Baze tells his partner. 

A series of whistles and beeps causes Bodhi to snort so hard that he begins to choke on his food. That glare is turned on him while Baze pats him gently on the back. “Ah, thank you. Wrong pipe…”

“Kaytoo,” Cassian admonishes, but he’s grinning now, that slight upturn having grown exponentially. He’s laughing at her too, and she shoves a spoonful of dinner into her mouth to keep from grumbling.

“I am not a dark cloud,” Jyn protests. 

She doesn’t have to look to know that Cassian’s watching her. She knows when it’s his gaze on her. 

She also knows because he knows why she’s in such a bad mood.

Just once, _just once_ , she would like to keep her family together. She would like Cassian to stay. She would like Bodhi to fly them. She would like to hear K2’s insults and half-assed attempts of flattery and confusion. She wants to keep Chirrut and Baze on hand. Because they are already a team. They’re already strong. 

“I guess now is as good a time as any,” Bodhi says. He stares down at his food for a moment, stirring it. “The whole medal thing, and because of Scarif, and because I’ve been cleared--”

“You’re leaving,” Jyn interrupts. 

“Thankfully, I get to be back on transport. Just for the other side.”

His gaze meets hers, before he looks at the others. “I wanted to tell you guys, but then I wasn’t sure about when would be the best time, especially after the princess disappeared and with the evacuations anyway.”

“When?” Cassian asks. 

“Two days from now.”

Chirrut makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. He folds his hands over one another, elbows on the table, chin on the back of his hand. “We knew it would happen. Our skills are too vastly different for us to stay together.”

The hard look Baze gives him tells Jyn everything she needs to know. No war will ever separate them, skills or not. 

“That doesn’t mean we won’t always be there for each other.”

He speaks to all of them, but Jyn feels like the words are aimed at her. And she appreciates it, absorbs his comfort like the husk of a sponge. 

“I am leaving, too,” Cassian finally admits to the rest of them.

Under the table, his hand finds hers. 

She squeezes his fingers where only K2 can see them. 

“What about you two?” Jyn asks. 

“Chirrut would like to enter battle as soon as possible, but he isn’t ready,” Baze answers for them. 

“They’re evacuating the base,” Cassian says. “Do you know where they are stationing you?”

“Not Derra IV.”

“I am,” Jyn finally says. 

Cassian hand stiffens against hers. “You’re going to Derra?”

“I was recruited into the Pathfinders.” Jyn shrugs.

“You didn’t say anything.”

The others go quiet. 

She hadn’t said anything because she hadn’t said yes. Because she been naive. Because she had wanted them to stick together. 

“I was waiting for the right time.”

They all know it’s a lie. 

“You know what I think this means?” Bodhi asks them all. There’s a bright smile on his face as he tries to break the tension. “We all need to celebrate, one last time. To the success of Rogue One.”

“To family,” Chirrut agrees.

They grow quiet again, soaking in that word. It’s their droid in his stolen body, K-2SO, who beeps something that sounds like agreement. Even Jyn can understand that.


End file.
